Summer Storm
by zemarha
Summary: Lit. OneShot. She's still with Dean, and she tells him it's what she wants. But he likes to think he knows her better than that. And that it's about time she stopped lying to herself.


**Summer Storm**

_"I am, Jess. I'm happy with him."_

_He just looks at her, more or less expressionless. He figures, if she wants to know what he thinks about it, she'll see a hint of it in his eyes, if she's really looking. And if she really wants to know, she can ask. She should know he won't lie. He stopped doing that with her a long time ago._

_"It's what I want," she adds softly, and she sounds sincere enough that he knows she believes it. Or wants to believe it. Or thinks that she should believe it... One way or another, she's so deep in this mess that when she lies to herself, it doesn't even register anymore._

He can change that. He knows this, and since their conversation, he's been quietly waiting for a chance to do just that.

* * *

It's late summer. The past few days have been leading up to this storm- it's been hot and stifling and unbearable; the air's been thick, pent-up and waiting for release.

It catches Rory and Jess when they're driving back toward the diner, the two of them in her car, and the sky seems to just decide- it's time.

It lets loose, and it's coming down hard enough that Rory can barely see five feet in front of the car- she pulls over, ready to wait out the inevitable storm that will follow.

* * *

I turn to look at her and I can see it right away- see the way she's sitting up a little straighter, the way her chest is rising and falling more rapidly; I can see it in her eyes- her pupils darker and larger than I've ever really seen them before-

This weather is turning her on.

Maybe it's something about the ferocious, relentless downpour- millions of tiny fingers, wet and warm and humid- pounding down around her- completely inescapable. The bright, almost blinding flashes of intense light, tearing the sky asunder. Pieces of hail starting to fall. Cracks of thunder making her start.

It's beautiful and dark and a little bit dangerous- but not so dangerous that she doesn't want to throw the car door open and stand out in the middle of the street, arms uplifted toward the heavens and whatever elusive force that might answer her back; laughing and grinning as the wind plays with her hair and the storm slowly soaks her through, streaks of rain touching every single spot on her skin, until she's claimed by a power higher than herself...

Watching her watch the sky, I can feel my own breathing get a little heavier, my pupils more than likely dilating to match the size of her own.

She turns suddenly, feeling my eyes on her; and the car is hot and humid and the windows have already started fogging up. She says my name, her voice matching the weather, and I don't try to stop myself this time-

I close the distance between our lips and steal her breath away, as demanding and surprising and unforgiving as the unexpected summer storm that trapped us here in the first place.

We both flinch and scare a little as cherry-sized hail strikes the metal of her car- nerves on end from the relentless reality of the storm, the heat, and our bodies- everything on edge.

Adrenaline, serotonin, dopamine, surges of god knows what else flood through our veins.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I can't stop myself from thinking: Rory likes it rough. Who would've thought.

She likes to be controlled; she wants to be the one not in charge- because as much as she wants this, she'd be too scared to initiate anything herself. And if she thought she had any say in the matter, she'd feel obligated to stop this- probably listening to that voice in her head that sounds a little too much like Lorelai.

So I'm forceful with her- enough that she can't forget who she is or who she's with, enough for her to know that this- this is uncontrollable.

Enough for her to enjoy it.

When we break apart, her lips are swollen and red and bruised.

Before she has a chance to fully recover, I kiss my way down her jaw line, making my way to her neck. She lets out a little half-sigh, half-moan, and any question of stopping that was attempting to make its way through my fog-filled head has just been pushed out.

I find a particularly sensitive spot- just below her pulse- and she tilts her head back impossibly further. I think to hell with it, and suck on the delicate skin there, biting down, nipping at her senses- and there's no way that's not going to leave a mark.

Relentless.

Again, I think about stopping... but I figure as long as we're stuck out here, as long as this storm rages on around us, we might as well.

Because I know she needs this. She needs to _feel_ something- something uncageable and alive and very real, something that will shake her world up a little bit. She needs to know that this- us- whatever it is that we've got going on between us- it's scarier and more dangerous and more beautiful than anything she's ever witnessed before.

It's real, and it will stir her soul and make her new again- if she will just let it.

Because what we've got- it is powerful and persuasive and unrelenting. She can't close her eyes and say she doesn't see it. It will not be ignored.

I will not be ignored. She can't outrun this one; she's not going to dodge this bullet, and once she gets past all her uncertainties, she will be glad she didn't.

This is happening. And she needs to know it.


End file.
